The Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes: The powerful secret society with a more pressing financial problem

'We are not a secret society, more a reclusive organisation'

David Jerman (left) and Barrie Kingston at the order’s headquarters in Harrogate. They deny the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes is a secret society pulling the levers of power (Guzelian)

I am ushered into the Great Hall: wood panelling, deep armchairs, giant fireplace supported by two bare-breasted stone mermaids.

You notice the coat of arms above the fireplace: on one side, a knight of St George. On the other, a buffalo rampant. Slowly you realise the hall’s recurring motif – the buffalo horns inscribed above the photographs of men in strange regalia.

But before you can investigate further, he appears: Brother David Jerman, Grand Primo, chief officer of the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes.

Don’t be fooled by the name. Or the old initiation ceremony, where they leapt like kangaroos, sang “We’ll chase the buffalo”, and told the initiate he was: “Entitled to chump, grind and devour, in all turnip fields, meadows and pastures” but obliged to “gore and toss all enemies to Buffaloism”.

This is serious. This lot have rituals, like the Masons. They are part of the Illuminati, the secret elite which for millennia has pulled all the hidden levers of power. (Well, they are if you read the internet.)

And here in the Grand Lodge of England, in Harrogate, North Yorkshire, Mr Jerman is leading me to the lodge room, where Worthy Primos preside beneath an enormous stuffed buffalo head.

He laughs about the internet stuff: he’s not leader of a super-rich power elite. He’s a 61-year-old retired bank official from Corwen, north Wales. “We don’t have those powers at all.” Which, alas, may be true. Because as Mr Jerman’s right-hand man, Grand Trustee Brother Barrie Kingston, admits, “something is amiss” in the Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes.

Some £105,000 is seemingly unaccounted for in their annual accounts – worrying, if their annual income truly is only about £900,000 and their wage bill just over £750,000. Five senior brothers have been suspended pending an internal investigation. Forensic auditors have been scouring the accounts. Police are awaiting the outcome before deciding what action to take.

And next week, the Grand Lodge Management Committee will consider the interim report of the forensic auditors, and decide whether to request further investigation or take immediate action. It may prove to have been an innocent bit of bodged bookkeeping, in which case the order may simply reinstate the suspended brothers.

Mr Kingston, 62, of Dartford, Kent, stresses: “At this stage, we are not accusing anyone of anything. [All those suspended] have said they have done nothing wrong.”

And so The Independent has been invited into the inner sanctum. Because they don’t want this “small little problem” to undermine their real mission: not quietly ruling the world but quietly doing a lot for charity. The 10,000 members raise £500,000 to £1m a year, apparently. But they don’t like to talk about it. “We are not a secret society,” explains Mr Kingston, “more a reclusive organisation.”

So they won’t reveal the passwords to get into a lodge meeting, but will say the old initiation ceremony has been replaced by something more sensible. No more leaping: new members are just called kangaroos. No singing “We’ll chase the Buffalo”. They just chant: “Spirit of true Buffaloism hover around us”. And certainly no rolled-up trouser legs. That’s the separate “Masonic lot”.

Their history does not stretch back to biblical times – more like 1822, and a fraternity of stagehands at the Harp Tavern near London’s Drury Lane Theatre. Mr Kingston confirms that Harold Macmillan was a buffalo before becoming prime minister. But as for those other rumoured historical members: Herbert Asquith, Edward VII, various chief constables?

Mr Kingston smiles. “Unfortunately, our old membership lists were destroyed in a fire about 50 years ago.”

He can, at least, tell me who isn’t a member: Beyoncé. The pop superstar appeared in a promotional video for her 2013 tour with one of the order’s medals around her neck. Cue internet conspiracy theory meltdown.

But, explains Mr Kingston, you can, regrettably, buy old medals on eBay for a fiver. And Beyoncé is a woman. And women can’t be members, although they can attend social nights and fundraise.

“Men say visiting the lodge is the only bit of peace they get,” says Mr Kingston, “and their wives are happy to be rid of them for a few hours.”

And amid the joking, the secret tumbles out. “In 1974,” he says, “our Grand Primo was Bob Arnold.” The late Bob Arnold? Tom Forrest of The Archers? Who delivered the seemingly innocent preamble to the Sunday omnibus? The very same. “I listen to every episode,” says a grinning Mr Kingston, “for that crucial word or two.”

He thinks I think he’s joking, but as I am ushered out past the topless mermaids and buffalo horns, it’s all starting to make sense. Beyoncé was just a distraction. So was that guff about “an everyday story of country folk”.

The Buffaloes will overcome their £105,000 financial headache. And if you are male and like buffaloes, world domination and knowing what will happen in The Archers – or if you enjoy camaraderie and charity – you can join them.